Stochastic
by ikkiichiyuu
Summary: Will not make sense if you have not read Transliterations. Third cut: When the General is away, the soldiers do not play, because chaos reigns, A.K.A. hide-and-seek!Loki and panic!(at-the-disco)guards
1. Ӕsir-Vanir War 001-X

**Stochastic**

characterization by conjecture; conjectural

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**Convoluted Norse mythology and my equally twisted plot lines make for incredibly tangled possible future plotlines. Did that make sense? While I'm at it, I deeply apologise for butchering any Norse mythology.**

**This is a companion drabble, giving a little more flesh to the events between Harry's arrival in Asgard and the conclusion of the war (945 A.D.) in Jötunheim.**

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_21. The war I remember, the first in the world,  
When the gods with spears had smitten Gollveig,  
And in the hall of Hor had burned her,  
Three times burned, and three times born,  
Oft and again, yet ever she lives._

_22. Heith they named her, who sought their home,  
The wide-seeing witch, in magic wise;  
Minds she bewitched, that were moved by her magic,  
To evil women a joy she was._

**_The Poetic Edda, Chapter I, Voluspo_**

**by Henry Adams Bellows, [1936]**

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The book snaps shut with a quick flex of his fingers, and he rubs his fingers along his brow. He is more than proficient in spell work and layering the weaves, but the items that he is currently trying to replicate are far more complicated than that.

_He watches the magical family clock – James' hand points at the label 'Hospital', and Albus' points towards 'Mortal Danger'… but one hand is stuck, never to move again._

"What ails your thoughts, Haraldr?"

He literally jumps at the Queen's voice, before recovering himself enough to stand up and bow customarily, "Nothing of great worry, my Queen. Merely an excess of thoughts that have no outlet by which to exhaust themselves, but I will be rid of them when night passes," and smoothly redirects the conversation from his lapse of concentration to the matters at hand, "The court session is to be started soon?"

She replies in the affirmative but with a furrowed brow, so Harry quickly moves to his feet, not making any bid to engage the Queen, once again lost in another prophetic vision.

He arrives far too late; the floor is already stained with congealing blood and ash, littered with spears, and amongst what is left of the tattered clothing not stained by the copious amount of blood, are the colours characteristic of the Vanir.

He is, however, just in time to see the mangled body raise itself onto its knees, only to be pierced once again by spears, and then set on fire. The fire burns longer and brighter than any dead body should, and then all his muscles freeze when from the ashes, when a figure rises from it.

A woman, he realises, not unlike those old stories where a wise sorceress would rise from underneath the skin of beasts or old hags.

_The magic swirls, suffocating. _

And then she foretells of the war that Harry has been dreading for countless weeks.

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**This is the start of the Ӕsir-Vanir War, if you did not manage to catch the references. ****Horrendously incomplete and hopelessly dead, ****now that I have progressed the events of Transliterations far beyond.**


	2. Ivaldi 001-X

**Stochastic**

characterization by conjecture; conjectural

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**Purely a writing exercise to stretch out some plot devices. As I write this sentence, I'm close to falling asleep.**

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_A man who works with his hands is a laborer; _

_a man who works with his hands and his brain is a craftsman; _

_but a man who works with his hands and his brain and his heart is an artist._

**Louis Nizer**

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Ivaldi has watched the comings and goings of many, witnessed many times as the spell-craft of his people metamorphosed simple rocks into shining jewels. He has unearthed precious metals with his own handcrafted tools, and felt solid rock tremble under his feet as countless caverns collapsed upon themselves. He no longer sees after a lifetime of sights and sounds, but that does not mean that he is _insensate. _It merely means that he is old, pains and aching joints.

With the loss of his sight, come the keenness of his hearing, and the sensitivity of his skin, calluses and all.

He _feels_ the murmur of the Asbrú as it cuts through a finger's width of dirt, and feels the echo of seiðr as the tendrils investigate down the tunnels that lead to the Dvergar citadel that he was born in. Few surface dwellers make it far into the depths of the Dwarven Realm, Ivaldi muses, and none have had the distinction of half a dozen of the highly skilled soldiers of the Harkalegasta Citadel as escorts.

Ivaldi does not let the apprehension cloud his concentration – steady fingers lower slender bars of his latest alloy into the mold. The heat from the forge takes hold, and the hiss of the metal slowly turning molten is music to his ears.

His esteemed unexpected guest comes to a stop before his doors, and Ivaldi steps thirty paces from the forge before nudging the doors open a crack for his voice to carry through, "Who is it, who dares disturb my work?"

There is a pause, before the unknown stranger replies, "I ask for forgiveness in the interruption of your labours. I came at the commendations of my Queen, the Lady Frigga, who declared that the works of Ivaldi are treasures beyond any measure."

They are pretty words, well-rehearsed, even. But there are no lies that Ivaldi can detect, and the words of the Lady Frigga carry much weight. He remembers her from a long time ago – divine smiles and genteel manners.

"So be it," and he pushes the door wider to allow his… customer in. The heat from the forge rushes out, and there is a dark undertone of amusement when he hears the man hiss in surprise.

It is the best time to attack, "My question has not yet been answered."

"I am Haraldr Hjortrson. I am but a simple aide," and Ivaldi is impressed, because the man speaks in measured tones. A strange name, and an even stranger designation that Hjortrson has given himself. Surely the man in his forge is no thrall, if he holds counsel with the Queen.

He tries to dig a little deeper by laughing, "A simple aide? How humble of you, to declare yourself at such when you carry the backing of the All-father and his bride, and the birth right of the Stag. Which one of the Five do you hail from, Dáinn, Dvalinn, Duneyrr, Duraþrór or Eikþyrnir?"

"I merely exist… to uphold my oath to the King. Thusly, a simple task, Master Ivaldi. As for your other question, I have no answer," it is not the whole truth, but he cannot taste any lies.

Ivaldi accedes to Hjortrson's reply, "Very well. I shall not be the one to deny the request of the beloved lady of Asgard then," leading Haraldr Hjortrson to the adjoining chambers, where the red-hot metals of his labor are set to cool.

There are brief undertones of _realization_, when Ivaldi turns to look at the self-proclaimed _simple_ aide of Odin All-father with sightless eyes. Haraldr Hjortrson realizes the lack of sight that Ivaldi has been afflicted with, and Ivaldi feels the presence of the man's companion.

And somehow, he doesn't feel any fear. Not anymore. Not when it is so close.

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**There are two sides to every story – this is Ivaldi's. This little drabble might have a part two, but it prolly won't be posted in the next installment.**

**Set in chapter three, before the Ӕir-Vanir war.**


	3. panic!(at-the-disco) 1-2

**Prompts by a guest reviewer, who (in my interpretation) wanted to read about hide-and-seek!Loki and panic!(at-the-disco)guards.**

**I had too much fun writing this - it turned into a mini chapter of sorts. Had to cut it off before it grows wings, prolly will complete this as a two-shot. Kinda light-hearted one, but shows a little muahahahaha-in-progress as well.**

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_When the General is away, the soldiers do not play, because chaos reigns._

_In which Loki is nearly three (set a few months before the halfway point in chapter 6)._

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**T minus two days fifteen hours**

He is a man of many titles – the kitchen staffs call him _Master Hjortrson _in fond tones, for reasons that Sigmarr cannot fathom. The Court calls him the _Grand Advisor_ to his face, and then _Shadow General_ of Asgard to his back. The graceful Queen of Asgard and the healers address him as _Haraldr_, smiles always present on their faces. The All-father calls him by either his given name or his heritage, sometimes both at once, and hearsay states that once upon a time, Odin All-father has addressed Haraldr Hjortrson as _brother._

But now, as Sigmarr races through the hallways of the castle, part of his mind is trying to find the best terms of address to spare himself and maybe most of the battalion from the General's wrath.

They should all probably beg for forgiveness when Hjortrson returns.

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**T minus five seconds**

He is new to the business of wielding swords and hefting shields, and Volstagg has been told that he has entered the illustrious ranks of the battalion under the famed General of Asgard. His first five months have taught him that it is easy, to be under the command of Haraldr Hjortrson.

The man does not put on airs; candid and forthcoming, rightfully earning all the respect that Volstagg and his fellow shield-brothers have to offer through _shared_ hardships – Volstagg has never known of any superior officers who have plodded through mud and dirt and ash alongside their subordinates. He treats them well whenever he can, and gives them no reason to spare effort in their work.

Ultimately, it is that sense of selflessness that brings one half of an entire army battalion into stuttering fools and the other half into babbling idiots when Volstagg and a small number of fellow warriors – serving as Haraldr Hjortrson's personal security detail – return with the General.

It is not easy, to be a disappointment to the expectations of Haraldr Hjortrson.

Volstagg sighs. He now owes a favor to Haraldr Hjortrson.

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**T minus four days**

Harry allows a furrow to come between his brow when the fire-demon envoy brings the request of King Surtr to Asgard – the bilateral relations between Asgard and the rest of the Realms is nothing new, but Muspelheim is the first realm that has requested _Haraldr Hjortrson_ as a diplomat, to follow the envoy on his return journey back to his Home Realm.

He adjourns to the adjoining rooms with the King and Queen and a select few guards, pondering his options all the while. The decision is to be quick – fire-demons are an excitable race if word is true, and have never been exceptional masters in controlling their flames – before something close to fiendfyre breaks out.

He _can_ exercise the right to refuse, but he cannot do so without offending the sovereign of a realm of _fire demons_. He is unable to leave Loki in the Queen's care, no matter how much she insists that it is no burden to her; she is due for a visit to Vanaheim with the Lady Freya in the next few days, and Thor is more than a handful at his age, even for Frigga and her handmaidens.

He cannot bring Loki to the sheer firestorm that is Muspelheim, the additional factors being that the general consensus across the Realms is that children are meant to be taken care of by mothers, nursemaids and the general female population, of which Harry himself is already the one-of-a-kind exception in Asgard.

It is a dilemma that has to be solved in a matter of minutes.

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He steps forward once, and immediately feels the attention of the room turning to him. He keeps his tone deferential, "If I may be permitted to voice a suggestion."

"I am all ears, Skárison," is all his General says, and he cannot help but think that Hjortrson uses the strangest turns of phrase sometimes.

The intention stumbles out, and Skárison does not recall much of the original sentence that spills from his lips, only that his case is made through the fact that many of his fellow brothers in arms are not unfamiliar with taking care of young children, and that Loki is not shy of the soldiers under Hjortrson.

"Perhaps that is the solution to solve the problem, _and more_," is the response. There is a brief flare of pride from the recognition that Hjortrson affords him, but he has to tamp it down and forget about it when they exit the privacy of the small chamber.

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Only the minorities of eldjötun feel marginally comfortable in semi-solid forms, but Calor is not one of them. The air is sticky and cool to his transfigured skin, and the oddities that pass for _aesthetic_ decorations are alien to his people – those are merely fuel to his flame-body, as most things that are not pure metal or rock are.

He briefly ponders, and then shudders at the sheer magnificence of Asgard, set aflame, a pleasant thought that is quickly disrupted by the Grand Advisor of Asgard descending the steps from behind the throne.

"Envoy Calor," Hjortrson addresses him, "I seek your understanding in that our departure to your home realm is to be delayed for three hours – there are matters that I shall have to attend to while my men prepare for their journey."

It is not an impossible request, so Calor agrees.

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The arrangements go swimmingly well, and Harry cannot help but feel a mounting apprehension of sorts, even though his men have voiced their confidence in childcare (he is still a little sceptical), and Loki has tentatively understood that his father will have to be away for a few days. He consoles himself with the fact that Dáinn will be an able guardian if anything untoward happens.

The men that he is taking with him are the most inexperienced of the lot, and Harry knows that they have not yet ventured past the follow-all-orders stage, and will not have enough honed instincts to lash out at shadows with sharpened blades.

He shakes his head of the errant thoughts about all the things that could go wrong, and makes his way to the room that the envoy is currently waiting in – he is disadvantaged in the matters of the Muspelheim Courts, and it is time to use his unfair advantages to learn more from Calor.

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The Advisor finishes his business in a fraction of his requested time, and spends the rest of the time with playing gracious host to Calor. The drink is exquisite, living up to its name as 'Firewhisky', burning and soothing as it flows downward. He tells Hjortrson so, staring into eyes as green as flames born of copper. He basks under the eyes of the famed General, likening himself to a magnificent flame mesmerizing a feral animal.

The next two hours pass in a pleasant blur, until his flames burn up the alcohol that he has consumed. Calor pauses at the realization when his sobriety returns – has Haraldr Hjortrson always conversed with him with the nuances of the eldjötnar tongue? – but the thought is brushed away when the Advisor's men report that the travel preparations are complete.

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**T minus three days twenty-two hours**

Volstagg hefts the satchel of supplies onto his shoulder and winces at its weight. It is a necessary burden, unless his general can conjure up food from the flame and molten rock that is Muspelheim. There are five mouths to feed on this journey, and Volstagg hopes that they will not be spending more than a few days there.

They have made good time in the preparations for the unexpected journey to the Realm of Fire, and check their load twice over. Volstagg volunteers himself to inform Hjortrson and Envoy Calor of their readiness to travel. The envoy looks glassy-eyed, and Volstagg does not comment on it when Hjortrson winks at him.

They set off with the blessings of the King and Queen of Asgard, the well wishes of the rest of the battalion and oddly enough, those of the kitchen staff. Calor on his impressive saurian mount, Hjortrson on the giant of a stag Dáinn, and the rest of them on regular horses. The journey to the bridge is quick, and Calor moves forward into Heimdall's observatory as Volstagg gets off his horse – their mounts will not survive in the fire.

Their General speaks then, "Place your bags here," and they comply, watching as he sweeps his hand over the pile of supplies, gesturing for them to pick the bags up after. His brother in arms Lítli overbalances while attempting to lift his satchel and Volstagg lifts his with trepidation and then wonderment when the bag weighs as much as it is when it is empty. The bags are still filled with their rations and equipment, and Hjortrson returns their questioning glances with a tilt of his head, "You are on a diplomatic mission as my subordinates, not pack mules."

He then sends the white stag down the Asbrú, but there is no time for Volstagg to ask further questions – Muspelheim awaits.

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**T minus three days twenty-one hours**

They follow the diplomatic party with their eyes until they vanish down the curvature of the road, and Rúni sighs a little in disappointment at not having the chance to go with the great General. He turns around to look at his fellow brothers and their questing motions, only to feel his heart turn to stone and descend into the depths of his stomach when he hears the panic in someone's voice, "Where's young Loki?"

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**Sources of further inspiration for this chapter:**

_Regard your soldiers as your children, _

_and they will follow you into the deepest valleys; _

_look on them as your own beloved sons, _

_and they will stand by you even unto death._

**By Sun Tzu**

**P.S.: I like reviews.**


	4. Ivaldi 002-X

Continuation of Ivaldi's story from the second chapter:

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_In art, the hand can never execute anything higher than the heart can imagine._

**_By Ralph Waldo Emerson_**

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He watches with his mind's eye, before regarding Hjortrson, "Do you wish to gaze into my eyes for much longer like a swain stricken with heartsickness, or shall we move on to the business of my expertise?"

The man sputters, and Ivaldi presses forward, eager to pursue business. There is little that challenges him of late – blade-craft and trinkets made from his hands are without a doubt exquisite, but there is little variation to be had in either the sharpness of edges made to slice through hard rock or the fineness of spun silver in the likeness of spider threads – the Lady Frigga has sent Hjortrson, so Ivaldi will gladly relish the task.

Hjortrson speaks, and Ivaldi listens, his attention drawn away from their ghost of a spectator.

And as he expects, the task is nigh impossible. A sturdy structure – indestructible, if possible – to hold transient _things_ and preserve them as they are. He turns it over in his head, and looks at it in his mind's eye from inside out, only to be startled back into reality when Hjortrson touches his hand.

His hand is guided palm up, fingers and thumb folded to press together. Something a little denser than air is dripped into the shallow pit of his hand, and the liquid maintains its silky quality as his finger passes through it. It is worn and old like the pages of a well-loved book, kept preserved.

Ivaldi gets his rush of inspiration – amalgamates to be concocted and tested, with whole runes to be designed and crafted into existence. He is reluctant to part with his hive of thoughts when the subject matter of compensation comes up – there is little that one's heart will desire when one has had more than his share of turning the fates. He refuses the gift of vision, for he is content to live in his perceived world – his memories will stay bright and untainted without his sight.

And thus begins the bartering process, for Ivaldi has no short of riches and boons from the wealthy and the wise. It takes a little while, but Hjortrson offers up something that Ivaldi accepts with eagerness. It is the simplest but most heartfelt of all, because it has been made with much dedication and experimentation, and Ivaldi can taste the sheer potential in the hard drink that burns sweetly down his throat and lingers in his veins.

It is from one craftsman to another – Hjortrson will refine the drink in time, and at that moment, Ivaldi will be proud to declare that he has had a part in the perfection called Firewhisky.

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The alloy hums smoothly under the caress of his fingers, and Ivaldi turns up the corners of his mouth. It is a fifth-generation alloy since Hjortrson's commission, and the most malleable. After repeated tempering with star-flames and ice melt, it will be the strongest yet.

Some days he hears the murmurs, and for the most of those days, he memorizes nearly enough to hum along with it. Today is mercifully silent – Hjortrson has come on Ivaldi's request – and the man's admission into the forge brings with him the lingering traces of tanned leather and whispers of seiðr.

"Master Ivaldi," there is a hint of questioning in the man's voice, because Ivaldi has been the one who has sent for him.

Ivaldi gestures to the objects on the table that he knows to be there, "This is the archetype, and here is the amalgamate block for the final casting. "

Hjortrson takes care not to muffle his footsteps, and the heavy footfalls let Ivaldi know that the man has stopped a good distance away from the complicated mass of structured runes, "I am certain that it is not the norm to have foreign observers to encroach on an artisan's work, Master Ivaldi."

"If I had stuck with tradition, you would have no one to work on this commission of yours, and you know that, Haraldr Hjortrson," _and besides, Hjortrson's companion has already been involved in his crafts, brushing fingers against the alloys and runes._

The man chuckles, and leaves after confirming that Ivaldi's latest artifact is to the specifications, and finally, _finally,_ his limbs get to work in inspired motion.

There is creation to be made by his hands, and every single piece will be made to perfection and beyond, as long as he can.

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The murmur begins anew, louder, even, now that he has put down his tools. The metal construct will have to brave the star-fire for at least the turns of three seasons, all the way till the coldest ice-melt can be harvested from the furthest reaches of the landscape that is Niðavellir.

It is entirely too much time to sit around and do nothing – Ivaldi fears that his mind will lose itself by the time Haraldr's commission is no different in temperature to that of the blinding stars. He opens his mind to the mesmerizing quality of the monophony, listening to the entity that has not followed Haraldr as he departed from the citadel.

His hand falls upon the last of the wondrous metal that has been left over from the final forging – inadequate in quantity even for a short sword. It would be pretty enough for personal adornment, but Ivaldi thinks that there would be no happy end for those unfortunate enough to be presented with a ring or necklace made from the metal.

To be enshackled like a criminal of the greatest magnitude, for the metal holds and binds energies like no other.

The paean-like verse lends inspiration to Ivaldi, and he decides upon daggers. There is enough of the metal to form two decent daggers, but the material is heavy to the extent that it is unwieldy in battle.

Perhaps four tiny throwing daggers, enough to conceal in the palm of one hand, he thinks, and Ivaldi sets to work dreaming up the runes and design that would make such a set of weapons legendary.

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Ivaldi, Ivaldi, so much snark! Okay, so this is foreshadowing to an epic magnitude for Transliterations.

Took a little break from the craziness that is Real Life, because I saw the Thor 2 trailer. Seems like major inspiration can be drawn from the movie, no? Anyways, two-and-a-half more weeks before I can begin writing for real again. I've big plans for the next two/three months, both personally and for Transliterations, but a little SNAFU here and there.


	5. Chapter 5

A short five-minute piece that appeared out of nowhere in Chapter 10, which did not quite fit into any part of the current chapter.

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There is a safe haven to be found in his father's arms, and Loki sits in the embrace of his father's arms, watching as slender fingers pick out strings of seiðr to weave into intricate yet familiar patterns. He has seen his father complete such weaves in the blink of an eye, but his father takes his time whenever he can, citing that diligence goes a long way in durability.

Loki can only pick out strands of seiðr, but the threads are often frayed and unwilling to yield to his fingers. The best that he can do so far is to amass the magic so that it sits in his palm as a ball of light, so he watches, and _feels_ as his father pulls and severs threads to add to his own fabric.

He will be able to do as his father does in time, he just needs practice.

Layer upon layer of weave, simple in nature but complex in construction.

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Yes, this means that I am back. But I am behind on my writing, and will continue to be so, seeing that I will be starting work come Monday. I still have many side stories to work out, and the introduction of the cast of Thor to plot out.


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